The Devil Will Come

by Justin Gustainis

  “Yeah, I know. But Doyle found out something about that, too.” Trowbridge moved the newspaper clippings aside and pulled out a few sheets of paper that had been underneath. They were lined, torn from some kind of notebook and covered with dense, disciplined handwriting.

  “Supposedly, the Black Maria has changed its appearance, over the years,” Trowbridge said. “Back in 1908, around there, it looked a lot like what was in that picture I showed you. But as the design of small trucks underwent modifications over the years, the Black Maria seems to have kept up. There’s no pictures of the thing, of course, but Doyle found some written accounts from several different periods— letters and diaries, stuff like that. The Black Maria is always described as looking like any other truck on the road. The only distinguishing features are the black paint job and the lack of any markings whatever.”

  “There’s another thing about it you forgot to mention. I guess it’d be a ‘distinguishing feature,’ too.”

  Trowbridge narrowed his eyes, as if he knew what was coming. “What’s that?”

  “The kids.”

  Trowbridge looked away. “Yeah, I know. The kids.”

  “If, like you say, the Black Maria’s been around since 1908….” Slocum did not finish the sentence.

  “Yeah.” Trowbridge bent over the file again. “That’s what these clippings are about, mostly. Missing kids. No bodies found, no evidence of foul play, no runaways who come back after a few months on the road. Just kids— gone.” He pulled another sheet out of the file and glanced at it. Then he looked up at Slocum. “Chief Doyle had to make a few guesses. The records aren’t complete, especially the further back you go. But Doyle estimates that, ever since the Black Maria first appeared, the total number of missing kids comes to about… 42.”

  “Forty-two kids? And nobody even noticed?”

  “They weren’t all from here. Doyle found disappearances reported in Derry and Mansfield, too, along with corresponding sightings of the Black Maria. Apparently it… travels the tri-town area.”

  “Every six years.”

  Trowbridge nodded slowly. “That’s the cycle Doyle found. Going back all the way to 1908.”

  “Three kids every time?”

  “Looks that way. Three kids, every six years.”

  “But never the kids of cops,” Slocum said, his voice bitter as day-old coffee.

  Trowbridge said nothing.

  “Who do you figure it was, way back when, first made that arrangement with whoever drives the damn Black Maria? Who was chief of police back in 1908, or whenever it was?”

  Trowbridge shook his head. “No idea. But Doyle’s got a note in here that says a cop named Girardeau had his seven year old son disappear in 1914. And he says that’s also the same year that the department starts talking, very quietly, about a ‘hands off’ policy toward the Black Maria.”

  “Hell of a bargain, wasn’t it? Those shits can take all the kids they want, for whatever the hell it is they do with ‘em, and the cops ain’t gonna do diddly-squat about it. And in return, the cops’ families are left alone.” Slocum clenched and unclenched his big hands a couple of times. “Year, after year, after year. Talk about a deal with the devil.”

  “I got a feeling Old Man Doyle would’ve agreed with you,” Trowbridge said quietly. “In fact, he uses that expression here in the file, ‘deal with the devil.’ It’s one of the last things he wrote.”

  “Maybe he wrote it the same night he went home and blew his brains out,” Slocum said.

  “Yeah, could be.” Trowbridge closed the file and put it back in his desk. From another drawer he took a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a glass. “I need a drink,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation he asked Slocum, “You want one?”

  “Yeah.” Slocum was looking at the floor.

  Trowbridge was just putting another glass out when Slocum continued, “But that don’t mean I’m gonna have one.”

  Trowbridge stared at him for a second, then put the second glass away. He poured a couple of ounces of whiskey into his own glass and took a sip.

  Without looking up, Slocum said, “You know why Gislason was out there by himself last night?”

  “I hear you called in sick. Said you caught the bug that’s been going around. Christ, I hope you’re not blaming—”

  “I was drunk.”

  After a long moment, Trowbridge said carefully, “I thought you were on the wagon.”

  “I was.” Slocum seemed to find the old floor tile in front of his chair the most interesting thing in the world. “I fell off. First time in over a year.”

  “It happens. The important thing is that you seem to’ve climbed right back on.”

  “Yeah, that’s what really matters, I guess.”

  “Look, there’s no way you could have known what Gislason was going to run into last night. How could you? Whatever happened, it’s not your fault.”

  “I been telling myself the same thing, ever since I got the call this morning from the hospital. So far, it ain’t working too well.”

  Trowbridge looked at his glass, which still contained most of the whiskey he’d poured into it. He slowly opened the desk drawer and put the bottle of Johnny Walker back inside. Then he put the glass in there too and closed the drawer.

  “Are we missing any kids in town, after last night?” Slocum asked.

  “No. I’ve been checking the incoming stuff all day long, and nobody’s reported anything.”

  “Good.”

  “But they lost one in Mansfield. I saw the bulletin a couple of hours ago. Bonnie Thornton, age nine. Disappeared from her back yard, where she was catching fireflies.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just one kid missing?” Slocum wasn’t looking down anymore. He was staring at Trowbridge, hard.

  “Yeah. So far.”

  “That means two more to go. Tonight, or tomorrow night, or maybe later this week.”

  Trowbridge produced a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. “Yeah, most likely.”

  Slocum narrowed his eyes suddenly. “Thornton,” he said quietly. “There’s a cop on the Mansfield force, Marty Thornton. Bowls in the tri-city police league.”

  Trowbridge looks across the desk at Slocum, his face unreadable.

  “Thornton showed me some pictures of his kids, once,” Slocum said. “A boy and a girl. They were both pretty young, if I remember right. Didn’t get their names.”

  Trowbridge glanced at the paper in front of him. “Leo, age eleven.” He looked back up at Slocum, and his eyes were scared now. “And Bonnie. She’s nine.”

  “A cop’s kid.”

  Trowbridge nodded, just once. “Yeah.”

  “So all bets are off, now, because of what Gislason did last night. No more deal with the devil.”

  Trowbridge didn’t say anything, but the answer was clear on his seamed face.

  Slocum stood up suddenly, nearly tipping his chair over. “I’ll be in my cruiser tonight,” he said. There was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “But any calls that come in about domestic disturbances or fights in one of the bars, shit like that, let one of the other cars take it.” He took a step toward the door. “Now, I got some things to get ready.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Slocum turned back. “Gonna buy me a six-pack, in the long neck bottles. Guess I’ll pick a brand of beer I don’t like, since I’m just gonna pour it out, anyway. Fill those bottles with high-test unleaded, shove a rag in each one, and I’ll have me six Molotov cocktails. And my cousin, Randy, remember him?”

  Trowbridge just nodded.

  “He likes to do woodworking, got a lathe right in his garage. He’s gonna turn me out three or four long, sharp wooden stakes soon as he gets home from work— he just don’t know it yet.”<
br />
  “Look, Earl, don’t do something that’s—”

  “And I know that St. John’s has a holy water font just inside the front door. Nobody’s likely to be in there this time of day, except maybe for a few old ladies, and they won’t stop me from helping myself to as much holy water as I want. Maybe I’ll buy one of those Sooper Squirter guns the kids like so much, and pour it in there.”

  “Slocum, goddam it, listen to—”

  “And Al, over at Vann’s Guns, he makes custom ammo to order. I’ve got half a dozen silver dollars I’ve been savin’, and I’m bettin’ Al can melt them down for one of his 10-millimeter bullet molds without much trouble at all, what do you think? Maybe make some shotgun loads, too.”

  “Slocum, damn it, I’m telling you—”

  “No!” Slocum held his right hand out, palm forward, just like he was stopping traffic on Main Street. “You’re not tellin’ me shit, Chief, not this time. I’m telling you.”

  He gestured toward the big window behind Trowbridge. “Come dark, I’m going hunting. I’m going to find the goddam Black Maria, and I’m gonna settle things with that little bastard that drives it. And then I’m gonna open up the back of that truck and take care of whoever — or whatever — is in there, too. When it’s over, assumin’ I’m still alive, you can fire me, or arrest me, or do whatever else you wanna do. I don’t give a shit.”

  He brought his big right hand up again, but this time the index finger was leveled straight at Trowbridge’s chest. “But until then, until it’s done— don’t you even think about gettin’ in my way.”

  Slocum pivoted, yanked open the door of Trowbridge’s office, and headed down the hallway without bothering to shut the door again. He halfway expected to hear the Chief’s voice yelling from behind him, but there was nothing.

  Some of Slocum’s fellow officers looked up curiously as he strode by, but after one glance at his face, they just stepped back and let him pass.

  A minute later, Slocum was sitting in his cruiser, checking the pump shotgun that was standard equipment for each police vehicle, when the passenger door opened and Trowbridge slid in beside him.

  Slocum looked up, cold murder in his eyes. “Look, I told you—”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Slocum’s mouth froze in mid-rant. Then he shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer trying to answer the bell for the next round. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m coming with you. What are you, crazy and deaf?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Are we going to sit here and yak about it, or are we going to go and do this?”

  “Jesus, Chief, I don’t know what to—”

  “Will you just fucking drive?”

  Slocum looked at him for a moment more, then faced forward, started the engine, and headed slowly out of the lot. After turning into the street, however, he hit the gas and got the big car moving faster.

  There was a lot to do, before dark

  * * *

  Sixteen hours later:

  Cavanaugh brought the unmarked car to a slow stop and parked it along the side of the country road. The directions weren’t that precise, but he’d had little trouble finding the location. From some distance away he could see the smoke, and closer up he was guided by the flashing red lights of the other State Police cars, the fire truck, and the two ambulances.

  He got out of the car and headed toward the people who were gathered around the crime scene. Cavanaugh was a tall man, underweight for his height, with thinning blond hair and calm gray eyes that looked like they hadn’t been surprised since he’d learned the truth about Santa Claus. He was dressed in a quiet blue suit and wore a light topcoat against the morning chill.

  Cavanaugh had his State Police ID in his pocket, but didn’t bother to wave it around. All of the others knew him by sight.

  He walked up to the ranking officer on the scene, a uniformed Corporal named Morris. “So what do we got here?” he asked the trooper.

  “Damned if I know, Lieutenant. One homicide, for sure, along with arson. Maybe carjacking, too— although I guess you could call it ‘truck-jacking,’ considering the vehicle involved. And there’s… something else, too.”

  Cavanaugh looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Let’s take a look.”

  They stepped carefully over the yellow crime scene tape and approached the burned-out truck. All around them, crime scene technicians from the State Police lab were busy photographing, measuring, tagging, and putting things into little plastic evidence bags.

  Morris led Cavanaugh over to something that lay near the front of the truck, shielded from the elements by a plastic tarp. “Here’s the vic,” Morris said, lifting the covering away.

  In life, the victim had been male, considerably shorter than average, and completely bald. The pointed ears combined with the hairless skull reminded Cavanaugh of a movie he’d seen once, Nosferatu, but he dismissed the thought immediately.

  He bent over the corpse, peering at the wounds that had presumably ended the little man’s life. “Gunshots?”

  “Looks like,” Morris said. “I make it four rounds, grouped within a two-inch circle, more or less. No powder burns, so it wasn’t close up. Somebody knows how to shoot.”

  “Just what we need.” Cavanaugh’s attention was then drawn to the long, slim knife, made of some black material, which lay a foot or so from the little man’s outstretched right hand. “This is an interesting little toy.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Morris said. “Looks like some kind of dirk, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s more than that,” Cavanaugh said, still bent over. “This here is a Sykes-Fairbairn fighting knife. It was developed for British Commandos in World War II. Damn thing looks old enough to be an original, not a replica.” He straightened up before going on. “My brother collects that kind of stuff. He told me once this thing is the best special ops knife ever made. It’ll hold a razor-sharp edge, doesn’t reflect the light, and it’s balanced, in case you wanna throw it. It has only one purpose: killing people, quickly and quietly.”

  “Well, this guy looks a little small for the Commandos,” Morris said. “But it’s his, all right. Got a special sheath for it sewn into the left sleeve of that bomber jacket he’s wearing.”

  “Are those bloodstains, on the blade?”

  “Most likely. Lab’ll know for sure. But it looks like somebody got cut, and pretty bad. See, here.”

  Morris pointed to a blood trail that led away from the little man’s body. He and Cavanaugh followed it for about fifty feet, where it stopped amidst a collection of fresh-looking tire tracks.

  “So, this guy made it as far as his car,” Cavanaugh said, “even though he was bleeding like a stuck pig. Wonder how far he got, driving by himself?”

  “He may not have been alone, sir.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Looks like two sets of footprints, both going from the car and leading back to it. And there’s these, too.”

  Morris led Cavanaugh back toward the truck, and pointed to the ground, where the crime scene techs had placed a number of little yellow markers with numbers on them. “They found some ten-millimeter shell casing here,” Morris said. “Four of ‘em.”

  “The holes in our little man looked like they might have been about ten-millimeter,” Cavanaugh said pensively. “Lot of police departments use that caliber, don’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” Morris said. “And there’s these, over here.” He led Cavanaugh over to the rear of the truck, or what was left of it. There were three more yellow markers there. “Shotgun shells. Twelve-gauge. I figure two guns probably means two perps.”

  “Nothing on the vic that looked like wounds from shotgun pellets, was there?” Cavanaugh said.

  “No, sir. I’m betting the shotgun was fired in here.” He gestured toward the b
ack of the truck. “Take a look, if you want. Forensics is done in there. It’s pretty… well, see for yourself.”

  Cavanaugh peered into the ruin that had been the back of the truck. It had burned, that much was certain. And it looked like sunlight was coming in through a number of small holes in the side that might have been made by shotgun pellets — big ones, like double-ought buckshot, the kind that cops call “man-killers.”

  And there was something in the back of the truck.

  Something dead.

  Something that smelled to high heaven.

  Cavanaugh looked at for a long moment before turning to Morris. “Got your flashlight on you?”

  He took the flashlight and climbed into what was left of the truck bed, heedless of the soot that was getting all over his clothes. The scent of gasoline was strong in here, but it was overpowered by an odor of putrescence that Cavanaugh had not experienced since the time he had helped uncover a mass grave containing the bodies of six murdered migrant workers.

  He closed his mind against the disgust the smell was prompting, and went closer. He was looking at the burned body of— something. It seemed vaguely humanoid, but almost certainly had not been human. Cavanaugh could make out scales in the place of skin, and claws where there should have been hands. And the sharp teeth belonged in the jaws of a bull alligator, not the face of a human being.

  One of the shotgun pellets that had killed the creature was caught between two of its scales. Overcoming his repugnance, Cavanaugh reached down and pried it loose. It glinted back at him in the uncertain light. It was not the dull color of lead, but something bright and shiny.

  Silver? Who the fuck uses shotgun pellets made of silver?

  Then he noticed something in the one corner that had apparently escaped the fire. He went over and picked it up. It was a baseball cap, dark blue, with a Boston Red Sox logo on the front.

  On a hunch, Cavanaugh tried it for size on his own head. Too small for him. Far too small.